Midnight Obsession
by dariachenowith
Summary: Obsession: An almost insane desire, longing, or burning lust for someone or something. AU/OOC, E/B, rated M for every reason in the book.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything Twilight, and by now you should know what kind of fics I write, so don't get in my face if it's not your garden variety rom-com.**

**For your own enjoyment, please forget anything you ever read in twi fanfic, and look at the story with a clean slate (including ALL characters). The results might surprise you!**

**No tags (yet) - not because the (admittedly provoked) clamoring of some incensed reviewers made me too afraid, but because I simply don't know where this will be going. I just know that it will be dark, and there will be blood. I choose my titles carefully, please keep that in mind. If you like what I've penned in the past, I'm sure we're going to have a blast!**

**Summary: Obsession: An almost insane desire, longing, or burning lust for someone or something.**

* * *

_When you're reading this, I'm very likely dead._

_Looking back, I should have known from the very beginning that things weren't as they seemed. I should have realized that she was trouble._

_The problem is: I doubt I could have resisted her even if I'd known who - or what - she was the day I met her._

* * *

It was a warm late summer evening when my world changed irrevocably. As such things go, I was completely oblivious that tonight would, very likely, be the last normal evening of my life.

I'd run late for work, so consequently I had to stay until well after my shift ended. It had stopped raining a while ago, but there were plenty of puddles to avoid, turning the smooth bike ride home into a veritable gauntlet. At least now the air smelled clean, and after the stifling heat behind the grill it let me feel alive again.

Cutting across two lanes in the thinning traffic, I turned into our street, then had to break hard to avoid flattening myself against the white van parked in front of the third house on the right. Which was odd, in and of itself - not because I wasn't known for barely avoiding accidents due to the break-neck speed I loved to pedal at, but there'd never been a single car parked in that particular spot. And not only was it occupied now, but the large van looked suspiciously like a moving van.

Glad to have successfully postponed my demise one more time I got off my bike and moved it into what would have been a garden shed anywhere else, but considering Mrs. Perkins couldn't be bothered with something as mundane as horticulture, it was mostly the space Mike and I parked our bicycles in. Taking the steps two at a time, I hesitated with my hand on the screen door. My eyes were inadvertently drawn to the van, then skipped over to the house.

Mansion, rather, as 'house' always left a more mundane impression in my mind. In its better days, the Masen villa must have been quite the sight to behold, with its wrought-iron balconies, wooden columns and wide galleries. But like the district around it, the former glory had aged, and not well at that, turning it into little more than a boarded up behemoth bemoaning its former glory.

Why anyone would buy this property was beyond me. In this district, or even this street, there were many houses with equal sprawl or history on the market, all of which must have come with less astronomical restoration costs. Even ignoring the very probable issues with the basic structure of the building, just tidying it up would take months, if not years. Hell, even razing it to the ground and rebuilding it completely would come cheaper.

Shaking my head at my clearly delusional neighbors, I went inside, quickly ascending the stairs to the 'studio.'

Technically, the term was wrong, seeing as it wasn't a single-room space, and I wasn't the only inhabitant. The name the realtor had used had stuck, even if we'd lost the 'charming,' as that had been too much of a stretch of the imagination. More accurately, it was the barely furnished - 'Spartan' would have implied intent, lack of money was the real reason - kitchenette-with-a-couch and two tiny bedrooms that Mike and I called our home away from home. But it was quiet, it was affordable, and in walking distance of both the campus and the bars, if one didn't mind sobering up on the way back.

I almost made it inside unscathed, but at the last possible moment before I could slam the door - quietly, of course - my landlady accosted me, her husky voice more chain-smoking drunk than sultry vixen.

"Edward, dear boy, do you have a minute?"

A minute, yes, even ten, but it never stayed that way with her. I had all the reasons to say 'no' in the world - my clothes and hair were reeking of cheap, unhealthy food, I had a test tomorrow I still needed to cram for, my sleep deficit was bordering on 'homicidal' already - and only one reason, besides being the son my mother raised me to be, to say 'yes' - we were chronically late with the rent, and as we couldn't afford to pay with money, we had to resort to favors.

Plastering a smile on my face that made my cheeks hurt, I dumped my backpack at the door, and clomped back downstairs.

Like the adjacent house, Mrs. Perkins must have been a true beauty in her best days. Also like said house, those were long gone, and it was hard not to blithely estimate the same time frame for both. I'd looked her up on the internet after she'd dropped a few clues, apparently she had been an up and coming movie starlet, suitors left and right, carrying her on their hands - in the 1960s. Now the only men who still interacted with her were the UPS guy, when he couldn't avoid it, and us. Mike, with his natural charm and politician-worthy repertoire of small talk had been enamoured with her from day one. Me, I'd fallen in love with the house, and considering that I barely broke even with what my stipend didn't cover when I gobbled up every available hour of overtime each month, I couldn't be too choosy about the other inhabitants.

Add to that the fact that Mike, ever the artistry artist, didn't possess the skills to operate a can opener on his good days, I spent a lot more time with Mrs. Perkins than I had intended.

"For you, always," I tried myself at charming the old hag, but her smile was about as warm and welcoming as my own.

"The garbage disposal is broken again, and there's something wrong with the porch lights. Be a good boy and fix them, will you?"

At least she didn't stoop as low as offering me her too-sweet lemonade again, and judging from the temperature in the room, she hadn't turned up the heat - in summer - to con me into losing my shirt. She wasn't always this considerate. For once, her maintenance troubles seemed less staged than in the past.

I acknowledged her directions with a nod, and went to work without offering another word. She still watched me like a hawk, but I'd long gotten used to that.

It only took me a couple of minutes to find the problem with the garbage disposal, and there wasn't anything I could do without ordering the spare parts first. The porch lights were an entirely different affair, though, forcing me onto a rickety chair with a flashlight crammed between my teeth while I switched the burned-out light bulbs.

"I'm wondering what such a young girl wants with such a big house," she chimed next to me from where she was, without a doubt, admiring how my shirt had ridden up my lower back as I stretched - not my words, but her own, as she'd repeatedly let me know on previous occasions.

Careful not to break my neck, I finished my work first before I climbed off the chair, then eyed her askance.

"You know, our new neighbor," she scoffed, her tone making me fix the mentioned woman's age from below twenty to roughly in her early thirties. "Probably did a TV commercial, and now she thinks she deserves a proper residence to go with her fame."

Her scathing remark was drowned out by the cough that followed, but before I could comment on that, movement at the edge of my vision drew my attention across our untidy lawn to the building behind the veritable jungle across the fence.

The lights were still out - I doubted that they worked, if there was even any wiring to start with - but the ambient glow from the street let me see the single figure on the sweeping porch in surprising detail.

Her skin was pale, the bad lighting leeching any color it might have held until it was almost white. Long, dark hair, swept up at the back of her head, leaving her clear-cut face free for me to study. Large eyes, dark lips, her feminine figure as much revealed as hidden by the smart pants-suit that she wore. She looked sophisticated, rich, and about as much out of my league as the neighborhood's. Her gaze was aimed at the front yard and street, but unmoving despite the handful of cars that moved by, lending a thoughtful air to her observation.

Abruptly, she turned her head, and our gazes met. In a moment, she saw, judged, discarded, and I wasn't even sure if in that order. No five seconds passed, and she walked into the dark house again, not bothering to close the door behind her.

I couldn't say why, but short as it had been, the experience had somehow rattled me. Not because my creepy old landlady was the only woman noticing the magnificence that was me - ridiculed even more by my own pun - but because there had been something in that gaze that made me almost glad that she hadn't more than barely noticed me.

Almost.

Even hours later, long after I'd heard Mrs. Perkins retreat to her 'boudoir,' I'd finished my assignment for my Interpretive Urban Design class, and had reviewed my notes for the exam twice, I still felt the occasional shiver run down my spine.

It didn't come as much of a surprise that the woman from the derelict porch also haunted my dreams, her blood-red lips forming my name in that flawless face of hers.

If anything, waking up the next morning I found myself even more shaken than last night.

And thus, my obsession was born.

* * *

**Thank you for your attention! It means the world to me if you drop me a line!**

**Besides a very basic outline I did today between coughing and sneezing, I really don't know where this is going to lead. I feel a little insane, let's make this a bit of an interactive adventure, shall we? What do you want to happen next - should dear Edward of the up-riding shirts stalk his neighbor, or would he choose a full-frontal assault?**

**No posting schedule yet, but I'll *try* to establish one. Posting of LtM will only be hampered by my laziness or the universe turning against me, not MO.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you all so, so much for the wonderful reception! I still owe you review replies, I hope I'll get to that soon!**

**Tentative updating schedule: Monday morning.**

**The "poll" results were mostly in favor of stalking, with several highly amusing additions! **

* * *

_The hellish thing about a downward spiral is that you never realize that you're sliding until it's too late to stop._

* * *

There are, without a doubt, jobs that make a certain kind of behavior seem completely normal. Private investigators are paid, even well, I presume, to stalk people. Same as no one bats an eyelash at an architecture student asking for the floor plans and other details of a house.

After spending a short yet seemingly endless night tossing and turning, I barely managed to get her out of my mind for the period of the test. The moment I walked out of the classroom I had all but forgotten about the questions I hopefully answered correctly, and my thoughts had centered on her again.

Don't get me wrong, I'm normally not that obsessed with anyone or anything for that matter, but there was something about the woman on the porch that just wouldn't let me forget about her.

Maggie, as usual manning the desk at the archives, only had a look of sympathy for me as I approached her. The mandatory smalltalk felt like gruesome torture to me, but before long she provided me with everything the city had on file about my neighbor's house. I felt both jubilant and guilty. The former for obvious reasons, the latter because I knew that I was abusing her gullibility. Although gullibility was probably the wrong word, I'd needed her help before on several occasions, and it wasn't even that far-fetched that I might look up building plans for yet another project. In a way, that was even true, but it had nothing whatsoever to do with classes.

I spent the rest of the day in the archives, poring over the material, and did a quick Google search before I had to leave for work. I didn't find much that I didn't already know. The house had been a true architectural beauty when it had been built in the 1890s. Records showed that it had been inhabited until 1971, and remained in its boarded up, mostly derelict state since then. Most likely the previous owner had died recently, and the heirs had sold it to the highest bidder. I still didn't know her name, and I felt like I was pressing my luck if I'd ask Maggie about that, too.

Another useless evening spent preparing unhealthy food, and I found myself weirdly excited as I raced home. My heart skipped as I took the last turn sharply, trying to avoid the vans this time. I needn't have bothered, they were gone, replaced by a sleek black convertible. Besides that, the house looked as abandoned as it had before, with no indication of anyone occupying it now.

I tried to be stealthy in my observation, but felt incredibly stupid about it as I stowed my bike in the shed. People were curious by nature, and there was nothing wrong or suspicious about glancing at your newly moved-in neighbor's house.

I didn't see her that night, or the following evenings. It was as if I'd just imagined her, except that the car remained parked in front of the overgrown lawn, if not exactly in the same spot. Yes, I checked, and yes, I felt pathetic about that, too.

In short, I felt like a creepy stalker, only that I wasn't even really stalking her, and certainly didn't have any results to show. It was about time that changed.

Sunday seemed like the perfect opportunity for that.

I didn't have to work, I didn't have to leave for lectures, and I should have done a lot more studying this week that I'd neglected due to studying being the last thing on my mind. Armed with three books, a legal pad to take notes, and too-sweet lemonade Mrs. Perkins had practically forced on me, I took up station in one of the porch chairs and went to work.

After watching the house for ten hours straight with not even a single curtain moving - as far as I could see, there were no curtains - I had to admit that I was a veritable failure at playing private eye.

The sun was already setting when Mike joined me, for once looking like he'd only just rolled out of bed for real, not artfully pretended to. I'd heard him come in last night, or more precisely, this morning, and figured he deserved to nurse his hangover alone while I was busy not accomplishing much myself. I gladly accepted his peace offering in the form of a steaming cup of coffee, then continued to stare at the neighboring plot.

"Whatever that house has done to you, I'm sure it deserves swift and brutal justice," he laughed, then winced as his frayed nerves caught up with it. I flashed him a quick grin in return.

"Just wondering, is all."

Normally, he would have teased me for using such an atrocity of a sentence, but tonight he let it slide.

"What's there to wonder about?"

The fact that I hesitated before I replied seemed like a silent accusation to me, but Mike didn't even notice as he kept looking at me with his gaze slightly unfocused.

"Have you perchance seen our new neighbor yet?"

His face lit up, and there I had my answer already.

"Now it all makes sense!" he exclaimed, wincing again.

"What does?"

"Why you've been sitting out here in the heat all day! I still think that's quite an extreme to go to, even for such a fine piece of ass."

I didn't take the bait, mostly because I knew that Mike was about the opposite of the sleazebag who'd objectify women like that. He sure had game aplenty, but because he was a nice guy who loved to charm the panties off every girl he liked talking to, not because he was such a catch. Sometimes he even used that superpower to send some my way, when I could be bothered to play wingman.

"So you've seen her?" I tried to inquire as stealthily as possible, which was to say not very covert at all. Not that it mattered, seeing as Mike was still intent on his coffee rather than judging my reactions.

"Seen her, talked to her, been wowed by her."

I couldn't help it, I stared openly at him, envy blazing through my mind momentarily. Of course he'd talked to her, he was Mike, after all, and it would be just my luck if she was the very reason for his late return home.

"Wowed?" I echoed, trying for nonchalance instead of biting his head off.

"She's really-" he started, then trailed off, his brows drawing together as he searched for words, and obviously failed to find any. "I wouldn't say she's nice, that word really doesn't cover it. Interesting's more like it."

"When did you talk to her?"

What I really wanted to know was whether she'd mentioned me, but I'd rather die than ask that.

"I think it was Friday night?" he offered, then nodded. "Yeah, Friday, I was just coming home from hanging out at Jenneck's, and she was just parking her car there, so I figured I might as well stop by and say 'hello.' One of us should, you know? It's considered common courtesy."

Now more than ever the need to know if she had even noticed me strummed through me, but I kept my mouth shut. It took Mike just one more careful sip before he went on.

"Oh, that reminds me, I kind of volunteered you."

"You did what?!" I shouted, unable to keep the rising panic out of my voice.

Mike just smiled like that cat that ate the canary.

"Yeah, she mentioned that she'd seen you staring at her like a creep, and I figured I might set her straight right away before she gets lost in some sexy obsessed stalker fantasies, only to be disappointed when she finds out the truth later."

I didn't dare reply right away because the likelihood of strangulation was high, but when he didn't clarify, I had to ask.

"What's the truth?"

"That you were likely not staring at her, but at her house. She took it well, too, didn't even seem too disappointed. The weirdness factor decreased exponentially when I explained that you're a lame architecture student. I think she was a little disappointed that you weren't something as glamorous as a photographer, though."

"I don't think there's much glamor in taking pictures of buildings for the sake of taking pictures."

"No, no, drawing up blueprints is so much more fascinating," he replied in a strange falsetto that I figured meant he was imitating me. Not that I remembered ever having said something like that, or even close. It certainly didn't deserve a reply.

When he realized that I wasn't going to get in his face over his lackluster baiting, Mike got out his cell phone and started scrolling through his emails or whatnot. Every second ticking by was like hours to me, and the fact that he didn't even seem to notice just made it worse.

"Just spit it out, will you?" I exploded, unable to keep this game up any longer.

"Spit out what?" came his guileless reply.

"You said you volunteered me for something. Care to tell me more about that?"

"Oh, right, I did," he murmured. "She wants to remodel the house, and I told her I'd send you over to talk about it. You probably know a couple of names she could turn to for that."

"Architects you mean?"

"Sure. That's the common term for 'people who plan houses,' right?"

I didn't care for that slight smirk of his one bit.

"Just to point her in the right direction? Not do anything myself?"

Mike blinked, then snorted.

"Dude, don't you think that's a little above your pay grade? And don't you need like a concession for that, or at least a diploma? Get real."

It might pain me to admit it, but he was right.

"I could help her with installations, too," I tried to defend myself even though he'd seen right through me. "You know, porch lights and stuff like that."

"Why don't you tell her that yourself, handyman?" he drawled, then winced again as his head exacted vengeance on him that I couldn't.

"I probably will," I grunted, hating myself for how petulant I sounded. "Did she say when I could come over?"

That thought alone made my heart race, among other things.

"I told her you'd be by Sunday."

"You what? And you only tell me now? Sunday's almost over!"

"Chillax, man!" Mike muttered, but even with his obvious pain I was tempted to punch that grin off his face. "Sunday's still got three hours and twenty minutes to it," he even checked his phone again to convey the correct information. "Besides, with her job she's mostly unavailable during the day, anyway."

"Her job?"

"Yeah, she's an actress. Didn't Mrs. Perkins already tell you? She told me she'd told you."

"She only mentioned that she'd done a commercial," I replied, probably too fast, but Mike didn't care.

"That, too. And plenty of movies."

"Anything I might know?"

"Not those kind of movies!" Mike guffawed, and consequently ignored me when I flipped him off. "She has mostly starred in some European art flicks. You know the kind that only premier in four theaters all over the world and get heaped with praise at the festivals where only nerdy film students hang out. No idea where she gets the dough from to renovate a house like that, but then her ride's pretty sweet, too."

I wondered how long it would take him to snap out of using all these colloquialisms, then decided I really didn't care. As it was, my unexpected window of opportunity was closing fast, and Mike seemed to have exhausted his stash of knowledge for now.

"I guess I'll better go over there now, before she thinks I'm rude because you were too stoned to tell me in time that you volunteered me."

"Go catch her, tiger!" he jeered, finishing his coffee and looking rather pathetic about it. "You look like you really need it badly."

The glare I sent him didn't faze him, so I got up and resolutely walked down the stairs to the street. My pulse sped up with every step I took, and my hand shook slightly as I reached for the handle of the rusty gate. No doorbell that I could see, confirming my guess that the electric wiring was subpar, if existent at all. That made wonder how she spent her nights in there, maybe stretched out on a bed surrounded by flickering candles? Wearing nothing except expensive perfume?

Those were definitely not the thoughts I should be harboring if I wanted to talk to her, even though my dick definitely approved. Even more so of the more graphic images my mind supplied next. Fuck, this really wasn't helping!

Neither did the sultry voice floating down to where I was still teetering at the gate.

"Must be my lucky day to find just the man I was looking for right at my door."

* * *

**Q for this week: Will they just talk at the door, or does she ask him inside to check about the wiring? (Sorry, I could not resist!)**

**I still haven't decided on any tags, but I guess you should expect less fluffy romance, more bloody horror (but that doesn't mean that excludes the whole love/lust/sex/obsession slew. Oh, hai, it's even in the title!)**


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